“Leviticus, do something!”
Leviticus was a computer expert and hacking his forte. Decoding and deciphering runes, symbols and encryptions was his specialty. His skills surpassed by few.
He grabbed the laptop, noted the scrolling symbols, and began to type in his own set of commands.
From a distance of 400 meters they heard something quite odd. Coming from Vatican City was the unmistakable sound of a waspy hum that grew with every passing moment.
“Hurry up, Leviticus. We’re running out of time.”
He typed furiously. The symbols continued to scroll.
The hum got louder.
There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The dignitaries ran to the nearest exits in self-preservation, their flesh now burning as beads of blood began to surface. They battered frantically at something they could not see, slapping their bodies, their faces, rashes now becoming open wounds, bleeding.
And Bonasero was no different. He was human and life to him was precious. More so, he was still a creature and as all creatures do, took flight as his skin began to be eaten away, his mind going into flight syndrome. But his humanity also kicked in, directing others to the rear of the Basilica in a futile attempt to get away.
More cries. More screams. The church filling up with anguished shouts.
And then he gave in to his fate, the pope falling to his knees, his garments becoming bloodied.
And he prayed to God.
Leviticus typed quickly, his fingers not missing a required key. And then he hit the ENTER button.
They watched the screen as the symbols stopped scrolling. A moment later the monitor winked off, and then on, a new series of commands taking place, scrolling.
Leviticus had powered down Sayyid’s programming with one of his own.
But the hum continued.
And Kimball thought of one thing and one thing only: We’re too late.
As Pope Pius lay there with his skin on fire, he was cognizant enough to realize that the hum was quickly dissipating. And he chalked this up to his soul departing and leaving the corporeal world behind. The sound, the sensations, everything in life was leeching from his body.
But when the sound faded he opened his eyes and looked at the Papal Altar. People lay about while some belly crawled to nowhere in particular, whereas others struggled to their feet. Everyone was bloodied. And to Bonasero it looked like something apocalyptic, the survivors lost and in ruins as they wandered about with no aim or direction, just… walking.
Reaching down to whatever reserve he had, Bonasero gained his feet, wobbled until the dizziness faded, and began to help others.
What had been a blessing had turned into a nightmare, he thought, turning towards the Ark. Even after all that happened, it continued to maintain its extraordinary luminosity.
He looked upward at the stained glass, at the images, and then looked at the statues of Christ, and then at Michelangelo’s Pieta. The Church was unharmed.
What happened was inconceivable.
But they were alive.
And for that he was grateful.
Kimball and his team did not waste any time. They raced back to the Basilica, went in the back way where they ended up at by the Baldacchino, and summarily headed into the main area of the Basilica.
The people looked war torn, far worse than those in regions where the Vatican Knights performed rescue duties by saving the lives of Third-World refugees. These people looked like they had battled for their lives, their bodies bloodied.
Kimball stepped forward, helping and aiding those in need.
And then seeing Bonasero he went to his aid, making sure that the pontiff took to the floor and rested.
Kimball knelt beside him, a hand on Bonasero’s back to keep him in a seated position. “Are you all right?” he asked with concern.
“I’m fine,” he answered almost breathlessly. “The others?”
“Battered, bloodied, but nothing life threatening.”
The pontiff forced a smile. “That’s good,” he said. And then: “What happened?”
“It was Sayyid,” he told him. “He and his team were here. They’ve been neutralized.”
The pontiff seemed to understand this and nothing more needed to be said or asked. Kimball had come through, his team of Vatican Knights defusing the situation like so many times before. They upheld the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry. They had saved the lives of those who couldn’t save their own.
“Please,” said the pontiff, pointing to the dignitaries, “help the others.”
And Kimball did.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Al-Ghazi was livid to the point where he smashed valuable items within his office. His team had failed. His reputation in the eyes of his supreme leader all but lost.
He sat at his desk running his fingers through his hair.
At least he had the disc. He could start over. He could revamp a team and create what Sakharov had perfected.
He went to his wall-safe and opened it. Other than a firearm and a few American dollars, which he pocketed, he grabbed the disc and held it up toward the light, watching the iridescent waves cross over the disc’s surface. He then placed the disc inside the inner pocket of his sport jacket and turned to leave Tehran for the last time.
Only he was not alone.
Two men stood in the doorway.
“And who may you be?” he demanded.
The men looked impassive and remained unmoving.
This was not good.
Al-Ghazi stood tall, showing an air of defiance and bravado. “Who gave you the right to enter my office unannounced?”
“I did,” said the man on the left. The man then produced a weapon with a suppressor as long as the pistol’s barrel and aimed it at al-Ghazi.
Al-Ghazi blanched.
In an act of self-preservation he raised a hand as if to stay the oncoming shots. But it didn’t. His fingers took flight as the bullets smashed through his feeble defense and into his face, killing him.
The operatives stood over his body, the one man holstering his firearm as al-Sherrod entered the office, smiling with his yellow teeth. He leaned down, reached inside al-Ghazi’s jacket, and removed the disc.
Al-Ghazi had served his purpose, he considered. And now the data regarding Sakharov’s findings were solely in the hands of Iranian authority.
Ahmadinejad would be pleased.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Pope Pius XIV lay in bed at the Gemelli Polyclinic in Rome recuperating. Although he tried to put on an air of good spirits, Kimball knew better as he sat beside the pontiff’s bed.
The news media hit the nail on the head and cited the incident as an act of terrorism. Whereas the religious dignitaries wanted to believe in the more mythological aspects that it was intervention of a spiritual kind, dark or otherwise, the political principals where more down to earth, believing that the Ark was tainted with some kind of bacterial, chemical or airborne virus that was unleashed.
Al-Qaeda took the blame and proudly, letting the world know that this was the beginning of the end of all infidels, even though they were not apprised of al-Ghazi’s death, and therefore without Sakharov’s data to move forward. Nevertheless, it was still a scary proclamation. But there was no information by the media regarding the truth behind what really happened — that it was nanotechnology and not the chemical, bacterial or virus scenario that it was made out to be. The truth was far more dangerous. Far more terrifying.
“Nanotechnology,” commented the pope. “”It can be used for good applications. But it can also be used for wrong purposes as well.”